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VERSES 



VERSES 



BY 



LOUISA rHALL 



CAMBRIDGE 

PRIVATELY PRINTED 
1S92 



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John Wilson and Son, Cambridge. 



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T OFFER these Verses to my friends quite con- 
scious that there is not a spark of genius in 
them ; but as a genuine expression of my deepest 
feelings, they may interest those whose kindness has 
made my long life so happy. 

LOUISA J. HALL. 
Cambridge, April. 1892. 



CONTENTS. 



Page 

The Baby's Complaint 9 

My Daughter — Aged Sixteen 12 

The Messenger 14 

On arriving at Worcester in May 16 

Morning Glories 18 

Columbines 19 

Heart's-Ease 20 

Heart's-Ease — To Marie 21 

To Harriet — With a new Dress 22 

"The House that Alfred built" — To a young 

Architect 23 

To 25 

To WHEN YOUR ShIP COMES IN 26 

The Star of Bethlehem 27 

Blessedness 29 



viii CONTENTS. 

Page 

Grow not Old 31 

Service in the Hereafter 33 

A Wish 34 

A Prayer '..... 36 

What Means it ? 38 

The Pure in Heart shall see God 40 

Old Age murmurs its Song .42 

My Body to my Soul 43 




THE BABY'S COMPLAINT.i 

H mother, dear mother, no wonder I cry ; 
More wonder by far that your baby don't die ! 
No matter what ails me, no matter who's here, 
No matter how hungry the " poor little dear ! " 
No matter if full, or all out of breath, 
She trots me, and trots me, and trots me to death ! 

I love my dear nurse, but I dread that great knee ; 
I like all her talk, but woe unto me ! 
She can't be contented with talking so pretty, 
And washing and dressing, and doing her duty; 



1 Calling on a lady of the parish, I found her bab}' of two weeks 
old wailing in the nurse's lap while she trotted it vigorously. It be- 
came quiet as soon as I took it in my arms, but when on leaving I 
gave it back, the trotting began again, and the pitiful crying also." 
These verses were written as soon as I reached home, were printed 
in a Providence paper and copied very widely, even as far as New 
Orleans, at the time. 



lO THE BABY'S COMPLAINT. 

All that's very well, I can bear soap and water; 
But, mother, she is an unmerciful trotter! 

Pretty ladies, I want just to look at your faces ; 

Pretty lamp, pretty fire, let me see how it blazes ; 

How can I, my head going bibbity bob ? 

And she trots me harder, the harder I sob. 

Oh mother, do stop her; I 'm inwardly sore; 

I hiccup and cry, and she trots me the more. 

And talks about ' wind,' when 't is she makes me ache ; 

Wish 't would blow her away for poor baby's sake ! 

Thank goodness, I 'm still ; oh, blessed be quiet ! 
I 'm glad my dear mother is willing to try it ; 
Of foolish old customs my mother's no lover, 
And the wisdom of this she can never discover. 
I '11 rest me awhile, and just look about, 
And laugh up at Sally, who peeps in and out, 
And pick up some notions as soon as I can, 
To fill my small noddle before I 'm a man. 



THE BABY'S COMPLAINT. II 

Oh dear, is that she ? is she coming so soon ? 
She's fringing my dinner with teacup and spoon; 
She '11 hold me with one hand, in t' other the cup, 
And as fast as it 's down, she '11 just shake it up ; 
And thumpity thump, with the greatest delight, 
Her heel it is going from morning till night ; 
All over the house you may hear it, I 'm sure, 
Trot — trotting ! just think what I 'm doomed to endure ! 



1844. 



MY DAUGHTER. 

Aged Sixteen. 

HE is not mine! I know, and yet 
Why will the foolish heart forget ? 
She is not mine, — I may not claim 
More than a mother's transient name. 

Her life, her soul, her power of thought, 
Not all earth's treasures could have bought, 
God freely lent, and for a while 
Gladdens my pathway with her smile. 

Shall she be mine beyond the grave? 
Oh, we believe what most we crave. 
But idle heart, do not forget 
She is not thine, — not yet, not yet. 



MY DAUGHTER. 13 

If I would have a holy claim 
TJiat shall outlive Life's quiv'ring flame, 
I must not dare to call her mine, 
But lead to God, to him resign. 



1857- 




THE MESSENGER. 

NCE suddenly to me there came 

The Thing that men with terror name; 
And as I lay with shortening breath, 
I saw and knew the face of Death. 

Gh ! solemn sweet the smile he wore, 
As if a gleam from Heaven it bore ; 
And to me tenderly there stole 
The message kind, " God calls thy soul." 

Then stirred my soul to quit this clay, 
But lo, not yet ! My Lord said, *' Stay," 
And from my couch receding slow 
I saw, half grieved, the Angel go. 



THE MESSENGER. 15 

But as life's clouds between us drew, 
That^radiant smile still glimmered through, 
And touched the earth with mystic light, 
And turned my doubting faith to sight. 



Then thronged the shining forms of sin 
Seeking mine earthbound soul to win ; 
But farther off with waiting feet 
Stood the Death Angel, calm and sweet. 



Oh, Soul ! yield not ! thy Father's strength 
Shall bid the tempters flee at length. 
And God's own messenger of Peace 
Shall smiling bring thee glad release. 

Providence, R.I., January, 1871. 




ON ARRIVING AT WORCESTER IN MAY. 

HIS is the month of all the year 

Most fair and sweet — to me most dear. 
What makes it so ? 
Full well I know. 
'Tis not that Spring with bud and song 
Beckons the dancing June along ; 
'T is not that seeking short reprieve, 
My cares I toss away, and leave 
Down in the city's dusty street. 
Which late I trod with burning feet. 
There is a spell, 
I know it well. 
That makes this month of all the year 
To me most welcome, sweet, and dear. 



ON ARRIVING AT WORCESTE'R IN MAY. 1 7 

Then much loved auburn locks do bow, 
And gently greet my silvered brow ; 
Two strong kind hands, two honest eyes, 
Bid other days before me rise, 
And with a welcome true and sweet, 
My feeble steps they haste to greet, 
And so, though silent, let me know 
Love makes two homes for me below. 



i87.S- 




MORNING GLORIES. 

ITH tiny hands, at six years old, 
I dabbled in the garden mould ; 
I sowed with glee my small brown seeds, 
I watered well, I plucked the weeds. 
At last, at last — how long it seemed ! — 
One morn as early sunshine beamed 
I stood and gazed in mute delight ; 
Three morning glories blessed my sight. 

My soul has sowed full many seeds, — 
I know not whether flowers or weeds ; 
But there will come a solemn day, 
And in my heart I can but pray 
That in its dawn, no longer blind, 
My morning glories I may find. 




COLUMBINES. 

MONG the rocks the columbines 
Nodded at me with friendly signs, 
And buttercups and violets 
Smiled in my face like loving pets, 
For then I was a child. 

Among the rocks the columbines 
Still nod at me with friendly signs, 
And 'mid the grass I love to peer, 
And find my darlings just as dear 
As when I was a child. 

A foolish child ! each growing thing 
A loving message seemed to bring; 
And yet, e'en now, soft whispering still, 
With joy this wiser heart they fill, 
For still I am a child. 




heart's-kasp:. 

AY heart's-ease, child, upon my breast, 
When comes my silent hour of rest ; 
My flower it is these many years, 
In spite of early griefs and fears. 

Who gave it me ? It grew, it grew, 
All watered by the sweetest dew, — 
First, human love, beyond all telling ; 
Then, *' Love divine, all love excelling." 



HEART'S-EASE. 



To Marie. 




DO not send the royal rose, 
Nor yet the lily, tall and fair ; 

A lowly flower beside them grows, 
With sweetest name that flower can bear 
A modest flower, without a thorn ; 
A child of sunny, dewy morn ; 
And so I deem it emblem true, 
And send it smiling, dear, to you. 



TO HARRIET; 

With a New Dress. 

Y zeal to clothe you never flags ; 

Since *' righteousness is filthy rags," 
Why, wear it still, but none the less 
Put over it this poplin dress ; 
'T will not wear long with best endeavor, 
But those said rags will last forever. 





THE HOUSE THAT ALFRED BUILT. 

To A Young Architect at Christmas. 

HERE is the house that Alfred built ? 

The masons and carpenters all are kilt ; 

The folks who lived there are all dead too 
For Alfred, he made a mighty to-do, 
And talked of the beautiful friezes of old, — 
Not a frieze did they get except with cold ; 
The garret was dark and the cellar was damp, 
The rats and the mice they got the cramp. 
The chimneys let in the snow and rain, 
The smoke, it tried to get up in vain, 
The pump was dry and the kitchen was wet, 
And the oven, alas! could never be "het," 
The plastering cracked and the floors did creak, 
And like a sieve the ceilings did leak ; 



24 THE HOUSE THAT ALFRED BUILT. 

For this wonderful Alf had forgotten the spout, 
So the roof fell in and the walls fell out, 
And the masons and carpenters all were kilt, 
And the time was lost and the money spilt, 
And this was the house that Alfred built. 



TO 



BwgiHAT doth Time take ? what takes he not ? 
Am ^^ ^^^^^ ^^^ bloom and leaves the grace, 
Takes smart from sorrows half forgot, 

And leaves youth's sweetness in the face. 
He wins the tutored soul to peace, 

Kind lessons shedding from his wings ; 
And though his takings never cease, 

Some purest joys he also brings. 

So, gentle lady, on thy state 
True Love and Honor ever wait ; 
Time's frowns these maids will not obey, 
But serve till Time himself decay. 




TO 



WHEN YOUR SHIP COMES IN. 

HALL I wish that your ship may come in ? 
Shall I say what I wish you may win 
When your ship comes in ? 
Tropical fruits, wines that are old, 
Spices and silks, jewels and gold, — 
All to be yours — when your ship comes in ? 

I shall wish that her cargo may be 

Rich with such things as the eye cannot see, — 

A wisdom most true, and honor most bright ; 

A soul that in gentleness findeth its might ; 

The friendship of man, from woman yet more, — 

Of treasures like these a glorious store, 

All to be yours when your ship comes in. 



THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM. 




REATHE gently, winter wind ! 
Fall softly, Christmas snows ! 
In silence, far away, 
The Star of Bethlehem rose. 
In other skies it shone, 

Where frost-kings never frown ; 
But on its peaceful beams 
God's blessing glided down. 

More pure than snows or dews 

The babe on whom it smiled ; 
And so we keep the hour 

Here in our winter wild. 
It glittered in the East ; 

We, in the distant West, 
Dream that we too have seen, 

And by that star are blest. 



28 THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM. 

Are there angels in the air ? 

Shining wings I do not see ; 
Anthems no sweet seraph sings ; 

And I lonely bend the knee. 
But the song is in my heart, 

For I know the Christ is born, 
Bringing balm for every smart, 

Bringing joy to souls forlorn. 

Can I go, a pilgrim meek. 

Over sea and over sands, 
Still the gentle babe to seek 

In the shining Eastern lands ? 
O my heart, if sin depart, 

Weary feet need never roam ; 
Christ himself in each pure heart 

Gently seeks and begs a home. 




BLESSEDNESS. 

T is not happiness I seek, — 

Its name I hardly dare to speak ; 
It is not made for man on earth, 
And heaven alone can give it birth. 

There is a something sweet and pure, — 
Through life, through death it may endure 
With steady foot I onward press. 
And long to win that Blessedness. 



It hath no shadow, this soft light, 
But makes each daily duty bright ; 
It bids each heart-born tumult cease, 
And sobers joy to quiet peace. 



30 BLESSEDNESS. 

An all-abiding sense of Love, 
In silence falling from above ; 
A conscience clear from wilful sin, 
That hath no subterfuge within ; 

Fixed duty claiming every power, 
And human love to charm each hour, — 
These, these, my soul, make Blessedness ; 
I ask no more, I seek no less. 

And yet I know these are too much. 
My very being's life they touch ; 
Without them all, oh ! let me still 
Find Blessedness in God's dear will. 




GROW NOT OLD. 

EVER, my heart, wilt thou grow old ! 
My hair is white, my blood runs cold, 
And one by one my powers depart, 
But youth sits smiling in my heart. 

Down hill the path of age ? O no ! 
Up, up with patient steps I go ; 
I watch the skies fast brightening there ; 
I breathe a sweeter, purer air. 

Beside my path small tasks spring up. 
Though but to hand the cooling cup, 
Speak the true word of hearty cheer. 
Tell the lone soul that God is near. 



32 GROW NOT OLD. 

Beat on, my heart, and grow not old 
And when thy pulses all are told, 
Let me, though working, loving still, 
Kneel as I meet my Maker's will. 




SERVICE IN THE HEREAFTER. 

WOULD my work were better done ! 

I would it were but just begun ; 

For listening where I waiting stand, 
Comes music from the Better Land. 
Oh, busy hand, and heart, and brain. 
Why have ye toiled so long in vain ? 
I feel that unknown world so near, 
And yet my spirit knows no fear. 

For longer life I will not pray ; 
I will not ask another day, 
For Thou, dear Father, even yet 
New chance may give, — new tasks may set. 
Beyond the grave, to Thee more true, 
Oh, give me still Thy work to do ! 
The power to serve Thou 'It surely spare ; 
Shall not Thy service wait me there ? 
5 




A WISH. 

Y soul ! pass quietly away 

Ere morning breezes wake the day. 
When kindly sleep hath closed dear eyes, 
And midnight hovers through the skies, 
With silent pang and placid sigh, — 
So, loving Father, let me die. 

When shining morn shall tell the tale, 
There shall arise no cry or wail ; 
One startled gaze, faint hopes, sharp fears, 
And then the gently dropping tears, 
And reverent touch on brow and hair. 
To find no trace of suffering there. 



A WISH. 35 

Love shall not waste its strength and life 
Tq watch the lingering mortal strife, 
With weary steps around my bed, 
Till patience droops and hope has fled ; 
But when the midnight world is dumb 
My Lord beloved shall whisper, " Come " ! 

Juue, 1884. 



A PRAYER. 

H Father! shall these prayers e'er win 
Some power to rule the world within ? 
Thy blooming earth, thy starlit skies 
Forever bless these gazing eyes ; 
While human love still guards my way 
With tender watching day by day. 
Dear Lord ! such beauty fills the earth, 
I walk amid such peace and worth, 
And look around with such glad heart, 
I can but think how good Thou art. 
So fair abroad ! but how within ? 
Ungoverned thought may yet be sin : 
Mine idle fears I cannot chase ; 
And doubts that well I know are base 
Still clog the soul that fain would rise, 
Denounce my outward life as " lies ; " 



A PRAYER.. 37 

And when sweet human love I win, 
^With shame I dare not look within. 
Oh ! reckoned better than I am, 
My heart cries out against the sham. 
Thou humbled soul I thy task is set ; 
With ceaseless prayer thy want be met. 
God's grace alone can help aright 
That inward world, where deadly fight 
Goes on unseen by mortal eyes. 
And human strength all baffled lies. 

Help me, dear Father! just to be 
All that my dear ones think of me. 



1885. 



WHAT MEANS IT? 

^^HE pen but mocks the guiding hand, 
gg The feet seem placed on sliding sand, 

The very words I strain to hear 
Are but a murmur in mine ear, 
And Mem'ry plays most faithless tricks 
When names well known I strive to fix. 
What means it all ? I will not wage 
RebeUious war with gentle Age ! 
The mere machine may wear away, — 
Its functions cease in slow decay ; 
But, oh, my soul, untouched and free, 
So thou may'st loved and loving be. 
Full, full of love to God and man, 
Why should I dread the common ban ? 



WHAT MEANS IT) 39 

Dear faces smile away my pains, 
, And Age lets light through broken panes. 
So wait, my cheerful soul ! ere long 
The flesh shall fail, and thou be strong. 

January, 1886. 




THE PURE IN HEART SHALL SEE GOD." 

OR work, dear God, I plead, — 
For work where Thou shalt lead. 
I wait Thy wise commands ; 
Thy work needs human hands, 
And mine, though feeble grown, 
Would toil for Thee alone. 

Too late I breathe the prayer : 
No burden can they bear ; 
I weep in helplessness ; 
My strength is less and less, 
With trembling hands and feet, 
What work for me is meet } 

A thrilling whisper came, 
My murmurs ceased in shame. 



THE PURE IN HEART SHALL SEE GOD:' 4I 

" Outside thy work is done, 

Within, 't is but begun ; 
All white thy soul must be, 
Or never look on Me " ! 

March 14, 1889. 




OLD AGE MURMURS ITS SONG. 

STRANGE fresh wind blows in my face, 
Not born, 1 know, in time or space ; 
A wondrous sunshine fills my heart, 

And lights my path ; I may depart. 

I gently fold the weary hands ; 

Tired feet shall seek no grassy lands. 

I hear no harps, I see no crown, 

No smiling angels gazing down. 

But something comes, I know not what, 

It standeth still, it speaketh not, 

But o'er my soul breathes holy peace : 

My loving Father sends — Release ! 

In sickness. 




MY BODY TO MY SOUL. 

Y Soul! unclad, — before my birth 
Didst thou desire to dwell on earth ? 
Summoned perhaps from farthest space, 

Fettered in flesh to join this race ! 

Entangled thus for weal or woe, 

The how or when we cannot know. 

Oh, Soul ! thou hast not been my slave. 

Each knew the task the Master gave. 

To grovel on the earth was mine. 

To strive and strive forever thine. 

I feel thee struggling to be free ! 

Patience ! the stars are calling thee. 

Nine decades have their mission wrought, 

With sorrows — more with blessings — fraught. 

Alas, I know not what thou art ! 

In mercy doomed so soon to part, 



44 ^y BODY TO MY SOUL. 

I gently crumbling in decay, 
Thou springing on thy mystic way 
We cannot guess to whom, to what ; 
Thou ** canst not go where God is not.' 

November, 1891. 



THE END. 






|,,S,^RY OF CONGRESS 

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